


The Delayed Penalty

by nikirik



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Angst, Humor, M/M, Romance, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikirik/pseuds/nikirik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Bond is a goon, Q is the new Coach, M is The Head Manager, Tanner is the goalie, and of course Bond's number is (00)7. And Silva is his arch-rival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I guess it's a crack after all :) Mea culpa.

Prologue

It's the final game and they are losing 3:2. 

He's high on adrenalin, doesn't hear the crowd's cheering and booing, eyes on the blinding whiteness of the ice and black blurring dot of the puck, pulse's frantically counting the time down as some kind of inner clock.

He completes a pass at Ronson who skates forward gracefully through the other team's defence, like a knife through butter, ready to shoot. And then suddenly he is flying over his head and lands with a loud crack which, as Bond coolly realize, is a sound of a broken bone. 

Number 69, Silva, is smiling under his helmet, escorted by the judges to the penalty box, mouthing "Clean" at Bond with a wink. The bastard has sent more players to the hospital then pucks into the net.

He stays with Ronson till the medics arrive with the stretchers. 

The Coach is arguing with the refs like mad, insisting on the game misconduct penalty, but gets pulled aside by the solemn glare of M, The Head Manager. The woman is made of steel or, speaking more accurately, cut from iceberg, she won't plead for mercy. She beckons Bond to approach.

"Leave him," she orders. "I want you to take Silva down as soon as he'll step out of the box."

"It's Five for Fighting,*" he tries to reason her out. "I'll be more useful on the filed."

"Do what you're told. We are out of time to tie the score and make it to the OT**, so get down to business. I don't want more of my guys to bleed on ice."

Bond throws a glance at the Coach, who nods reluctantly. He is older than M, it's his final season and the last chance to win the Cup. 

"You both know what's at stake here, we cannot afford to lose now," M pushes.

"Yes, ma'am."

So they send him on a kill. That's what he does best, in the end.

He wastes no more seconds, going straight at Silva, who awaits him with a friendly smirk of a crazy shark. They smash into each other and for a moment it's like they are going to waltz in this clinch. Silva's eyes are sparkling joyfully, as of a kid, who's got the perfect Christmas present and lingers only because it's a shame to tear such a nice wrapping.

And then he hesitates no more and sends his fist into Bond's skull, right at the temple, and it's fucking unfair that he's the last thing Bond sees before he sinks into the big black nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Five for Fighting - a five-minute penalty for fighting.
> 
> ** OT - overtime


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: All mistakes are mine.

One

 

He parks behind the rink.

The building looks forlorn and strange, as if he hasn't been here almost every other day off-season since the doctors let him skate again.

He leans on the car and allows himself a quick smoke. 

The new suit bugs him a little, not that he had to put it on today, only nowadays he tends to cling to the most mundane details to keep himself floating on the surface.

And right now he'll need all his sass and composure.

 

Moneypenny greets him in the hall.

"She's not ready for you. Herself is speaking to some big shot. Seems he's sent by the owners."

"I'm sorry, have we met before?" he cringes inwardly at how rusty his voice sounds.

"I'm the one who should say sorry. How are you? We've been worried about you."

"Well, it's only my head, and some of the less vital organs," He attempts to flirt, it's his usual way to distract people. "Nothing major." He cracks a smile, which doesn't seem to be convincing, because Eve doesn't smile back.

 

He waits.

The guy has that sweet young face of a student, who got lost on his way from museum to the library daydreaming. He's inspecting the big poster intently. Bond is familiar with this black and white picture. It's the one from the last (and only) time the team won the Cup.

M wasn't even in the managment then.

"Always makes me feel a bit melancholy. All of this," the lad motions around at the stands with the ancient trophies, "reminds me somehow of a grand old war ship, being ignominiously hauled away for scrap. The inevitability of time, don't you think? What do you see?" He turns to face Bond, adjusting his hipster glasses. 

Bond doesn't speak Art. It's the language he has no use of. He can't even remember then he was somewhere outside his apartment, rink or supermarket. Well, he watches a lot of movies, or rather sleeps through them on his couch. 

But he'd feel less offended to be called "old fart" to his face then to munch on this metaphorical crap which is hitting his metaphorical fan.

"I _am_ on that bloody big ship. And I will go down with it. Now if you'll excuse me."

Eve chooses this moment to call him in.

Behind his back Bond hears something that may or may not be a muffled apology. Does this boy even understand that he is apologizing for?

Bond has no time for this emotional shit.

Hockey is his life, and it can be taken away from him any moment now.

 

 

 

Sitting in M's office he glares at her china Bulldog with the mandatory British flag painted on it's back.  
The bloody ugly thing stares back unimpressed.

 

"Number 7, Gareth Mallory," M introduces curtly, not bothering with the specifics.

"I hope I haven't missed anything, the PR does prattle on in a crisis," he shakes Bond's hand with a knowing grin.

So, a crisis then.

"I've just been reviewing Bond's tests," M rustles some papers on her desk.

Her gaze is inquisitorial as always.

"Seems you've passed, by the skin of your teeth. You're back on the team."

He doesn't let them see he was holding his breath.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you. I'll um...I'll be outside."

Bond starts to walk off.

"I only have one question. Why not give it a rest? You have the perfect way out, go and live quietly somewhere. Why back on the game?" Mallory's wonder seems to be genuine.

"Have you played on the field much?" 

"You don't need to be a player to see the obvious. It's a young man's game. Look, you've been seriously injured, there's no shame in saying you've lost a step. The only shame will be in not admitting it until it's too late."

Bond thinks of Ronson, who probably will not be playing next season. Maybe never. No, he is not done here.

"Hire me, or fire me. It's entirely up to you."

"If he says he's ready, he's ready," M deadpans.

Mallory looks at her inquiringly.

"Perhaps you can't see it, or maybe you won't."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"You're sentimental about him."

"As long as I'm head of this team, I'll choose my own team members," M snaps.

"Fair enough," Mallory raises his hands in defeat. " Good luck, Number 7. Don't cock it up."

Bond throws a fleeting glance at Mallory and shuts the door behind him.

"I didn't know Bond passed the tests," Mallory muses.

"He didn't."

 

As Bond leaves the office, he quite expects to see the cute alien lurking between the stands but to his disappointment the hall is dull and empty again.


	3. Chapter 3

Two

In the dressing room Tanner pulls him into an awkward hug, before he even makes it to his stall.

"Glad you're back," he examines Bond's face with close scrutiny. "You look..."

"Old?"

"No, what's not that I was going - "

"Nevermind," Bond interrupts him. " If you've read all that they wrote about me in past four months, you'd think I'm dead. And there was not even one remotely tearful obituary." 

Tanner just cackles at his fake scowl.

"Anyway, what's the deal with this Mallory guy?"

"A charming man, ain't he? I think you and he are really going to hit it off."

"I'm not sure we're ready to elope to Scotland," Bond retorts, throwing his bag on the bench. 

"They are forcing her to retire. The word is she loses her nerve."

"But we were second last season."

"Obviously second is not an option."

"They are just looking for a scapegoat," Bond winces at the thought: the loyalty to this woman is so deeply rooted inside of him, that he defends her involuntarily, even if he reproaches her silently.

"And who is not?" Tanner shrugs philosophically and adds, "Oh, and the new Coach'll be coming today."

Welcome to the brave new world.

 

 

 _Disaster is a natural part of my evolution. Toward tragedy and dissolution_.*

The quote pops into Bond's mind out of nowhere as he gapes at the lanky creature in the cardigan who is nonchalantly repeating for the third time in the eerie silence surrounding him:

"I am your new Coach."

"You must be joking," Bond moans with all of the team bursting into abusive howl.

"No fucking way, man!" 

"Hey, did they suspend you from the figure skating?"

"Did you partner dump you for the chick with bigger boobs?"

"No, he just couldn't pull off all this glitter," snorts someone from the D-pair**.

"Enough, guys," Tanner warns.

"Why, because I'm not wearing a suit?" The lad is aiming his question straight at Bond.

They are _not_ continuing their previous conversation, are they?

"Because you still have spots," he answers slowly, as if not sure they do speak the same language.

"My complexion is hardly relevant," the voice is steady, but the index finger twitches to stroke the rims of his glasses, and - _why does he even bother to notice?_ Everything in this guy screams the opposite of the Coach, a guiding force, they used to look up to. "Is not," the lad insists petulantly.

Only in this sport it actually is. 

"Your competence is," Bond differs, not for the sake of the argument, but feeling obliged to reason some sense into this arrogant boy.

"Age is no guarantee of efficiency."

So, they _are_ having this conversation again.

"And youth is no guarantee of innovation." No need in restraining himself, if that's the case.

"Hey, Coach, can we call you "Q" like we call our Manager "M"?" Patrice meddles with a cheerful grin.

"It starts with "C", dumbass," Tanner laughs, and it's infectious, and guys are ready to switch their chirp to another target.

  
But surely "Q" sticks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chuck Palahniuk  
> ** D-pair - defensive pair


	4. Chapter 4

Three

 

At the first practice Q keeps to himself. Whether it's a strategy or admittance of defeat is hard to tell. Maybe he just observes them in their natural habitat so later he can draw a diagram on each player and reinforce them with the power of science.

The vision of Q as some mad scientist from these horrible (in a matter of taste, not impact) black-and-white flicks he used to watch as a kid curves Bond's lips in a lopsided grin.

Tanner regains his permanent capitan's stance and harasses them with drills and shots till their asses are falling off, and the silent presence of the slouching observer slips his mind completely.

 

Bond stays late, not satisfied with his current progress. His passes lack accuracy; the hands tremble slightly holding the stick.

"Is being a couch all about wearing some inept suit and looking intimidating?"

Bond is too damn worn out to be taken by surprise. 

"What am I, your stylist or your shrink?" he snaps, 'cause he doesn't find that pouty face endearing. At all.

"I reckoned the point of this game is achievement and not appearance."

Bond doesn't do heart-to-hearts.

"You should put your skates on," he challenges. "Stand your ground."

"Or ice," Q corrects with a smirk. "I'll hazard."

He steps out, a bit uncertain, but then he moves quicker and spins around Bond, crashing ice with his speed.

Show-off.

"Short programm, check," Bond can't help but mock him. "Ready for a long one?" He wiggles his eyebrows.

"You are ridiculous, you know it?" Q sighs. "How are you even a hockey player?"

"I'm just wondering, that makes you think you can act all stuck-up?"

"My exeptional sense of humor and intellect. What about you?" drawls Q in a most posh manner.

He's laughing so hard it echoes in every tendon streched from overload.

"Q," he holds out a hand.

"Bond," the lad nods, gripping his palm hard, as if not to fall. 

_Oh, he won't_ , Bond thinks amused. _I won't let him._


	5. Chapter 5

Four

 

They are not exactly friends after that, but somehow everybody presumes they are.

The reason for this assumption totally escapes Bond's grasp.

"It's not that we're exchanging girlish confidences or even speak at all," he feels obliged to pinpoint, addressing to no one in particular in the locker room.

"Man, we see you _eyefucking_ every damn practice," Patrice says and gets smacked with the towel by Tanner, who mumbles something unintelligible about undereducated Canadian boors.

Bond rolls his eyes. He should be used by now to the fact that hockey players out of the field are just a bunch of gossiping highschoolers. He wisely shuts up, because you know that they say about them who protest too much.

 

 

They lose their first game rather spectacularly. And it's a home one, which only adds insult to the injury.

It's a fucking _circus_.

Patrice checks the other team's forward into boards and gets two minutes. 

One of the defencemen breaks his stick while they struggle not to miss goal in the power play and just skates there uselessly. 

"Go play volleyball!" shouts the crowd. Aren't the fuckers supposed to _cheer_ for their team?

He glances at Q, who is paler than usual, on the brink of sick.

"Shit, they hacked us," all he manages to say.

Finally the howl of the siren puts them out of their misery.

 

  
He catchs Q at the parking lot.

"Chickenshit."

"I'd rather sulk at home in my pajamas with a laptop and cup of Earl Grey."

"Fine with me, but the team expects you to suffer through the fuck up with them."

"I really hate all this male bonding," Q whines. "It's absolutely overrated, sport flicks be damned."

"One more time and with feeling," says Bond shepherding Q in the direction of their local down the street.

 

  
It must be the magical effect of booze, because after the second round (this and the first one reluctantly payed by Q) boys seem to loosen up. 

Tanner suggests they should get Patrice a cute Spelling Tutor, and guys chirp, how this is the worst idea ever and Patrice will only be _spilling_ too much.

An hour later Tanner spoils all the fun Bond is having with darts while savouring his third glass of single malt.

"Your boy is thoroughly wasted over there."

Bond is not stupid (or drunk) enough to fail at guessing who the boy in question is.

"Will it help if I say it's none of my business?" he tries however.

"Just relax and think of Queen and country," advises Tanner with a smirk ignoring Bond's sour look.

"Right, I'll get him a cab," he gives in.

 

 

Q stares at him unnerving, curls dishevelled as if somebody was pulling his hair in a fight; lips reddened, cheekbones flushing feverishly.

"C'mon," Bond orders, helping him up. 

"I am a disgrace," Q whispers into his neck. "They won't respect me in the morning," he nods at the rest of the team, which's paying no attention to their Coach freaking out.

"I will," Bond assures absent-mindedly, tucking Q into the cab gently.

"I know," the lad answers sternly. "I won't fail you again. Cross my heart."

"It's a promise then," Bond shuts the door and sends him off.

This lad will be the death of him eventually.


	6. Chapter 6

Five

 

The optional skate practice next morning is not graced with the presence of the majority of the team.

Naturally when Bond shows up, Tanner is already warming up. 

"Does your shrink ever mention to you you're a hyper responsible control freak?"

"It helps that I am a captain," Tanner doesn't bat an eyelash. "Speaking of which. Maybe you should check on Coach," he offers. "Just in case."

"I'm not his nanny," Bond glares.

"I call them as I see them," the smug bastard retorts.

"Tanner, you spend too much time in the pitiful company of Patrice for your own good. He degrades you."

"Is it even a word?"

"Anyway, I'm going to the gym afterwards."

Tanner only snorts and skates away.

 

Bond parks at the curb near his Coach's condo. 

He awaits a crestfallen hungover whiner, but Q is beaming at him.

"You weren't joking," says Bond giving him a once-over.

The pajama has a lovely pattern (tiny computers and long lines of numbers, supposedly representing the code). This is unexpected. There is a "Man from U.N.C.L.E." poster on the wall. Spies, huh.

"I rewatched the last night's game and I figured out there we went south. I made a spreadsheet and some graphics, and I began composing new training regulation for each player individually," Q babbles cheerfully letting him in. "Just a sec, I'll hand you yours, it's gotta be somewhere...around."

The room is littered with freshly printed sheets, still warm, with a strong smell of ink. The white board near the couch has a drawing of the field with chaotic arrows and scribbles.

'You have a white board." Bond doesn't try to hide his amusement.

"It's very useful. Here, your copy." 

Q shoves him a folder. Their fingers touch and Bond jerks away clumsily.

Must be the static electricity.

"Well, I should be going. I just dropped by to make sure you're..."

"Alive?" Q grins. "I resurrected."

"Praise the Lord. I'll be off now." He feels dizzy and in urgent need of fresh air.

"Um, yeah," Q's face falls a little. "Maybe I can tempt you with a cup of tea?"

There must be a law forbidding the usage of the word "tempt" while wearing pajama around your teammate.

"Another time," Bond declines decisively.

And then a sudden revelation dawns on him.

"Tell me, are we your first ones?" He demands suspiciously.

It's a crime that Q blushes impressively at something as trivial as that. Somehow the situation migrates quickly into exceedingly inappropriate direction. And he can't put his finger on the reason why.

"This team is my first serious assignment," Q confides finally.

"Thought as much." Bond nods and heads for his car.

"Thanks for visiting," the soft voice calls out to him.

 

He should really stop with the pastoral care.


	7. Chapter 7

Six  


Q radiates calmness and authority as he holds the meeting with the team, explaining the changes in tactics and regime. He speaks in silence, but it's a thoughtful one, which is a good sign.

Their game is improving, more solid now. 

Their second match is a draw, two goals're scored and two missed

"Maybe the guy isn't a total waste of space after all," Patrice barks a laugh and all the guys, still sweaty and in gear, come and slap Q on the back, rather high-spirited.

Their third game is up North, so they will take a flight.

 

 

Bond still doesn't know how to call this thing he has with Q.

 

 

"Q is afraid of flying," declares Moneypenny handing him plane tickets.

"And I need this valuable intel exactly why?" Bond quirks up his brow.

"So you won't push him off the plane when he starts hyperventilating on your shoulder?"

"And that would be my shoulder why?"

"'Cause you'll be seated next to each other?"

"Who decided that?" He needs to wet his whistle, so he reaches for his Vittel.

"C'mon, Bond, like we all don't know you're practically joined at the hip."

"What?" Bond chokes on his water. "Why is everyone so overinvested in our relationship?"

"Oh, there _is_ a relationship?" Moneypenny quirks up her brow back at him.

Bond flees from the locker room in a very manly manner.

 

 

"I wasn't on the plane since I was 12. I puked all the way from Heathrow to JFK," Q watchs Bond wide-eyed from his seat and Bond toys a couple of seconds with the idea of hiding in the loo for the rest of the flight. "But I researched."

"Of course you did," Bond mutters, fastening his belt. "Never unprepared."

"Is that a scouts' motto?" Q frowns.

Bond shrugs. "Actually it's the Johnston clan's."

Q lights up with interest.

"Your ancestors come from Scotland, don't they? Are you a part of a clan, by any chance?"

Bond sighs heavily, wondering how on earth did this lad ended up being a coach with the scientific mind of his.

He lets Q torment him with all possible questions on the history of Scottish clans for an hour and a half. It's not such a dreadful experience as he thought it'd be.

"I hate to break it to you, but we have already landed," he starts to get up, while Q stares at him dazed, lips parted. Bond doesn't wait for him to realize, he all but forgot about his infamous motion sickness.

He is just tremendously grateful that he didn't had to use all these paper bags he had packed in the carry-on luggage.


	8. Chapter 8

_Ain't no rest for the wicked_ , fumes Bond under his breath at the hotel reception.

"Tanner, what the actual fuck?" He doesn't bother with knocking. "Why are you rooming with Patrice? Are you a masochist?"

No matter how you look at it, it's a dirty betrayal of their friendship and pre-game routine of many years. The only logical explanation is that Tanner finally lost his mind (no wonder with so much pucks to the head) and became as daft as any other goalie.

"Nobody else volunteered," comes the unperplexed response.

"And now you can have Coach all to _yourself_ ," Patrice peeks out from the bathroom with a sleazy smile.

Bond stares at his captain incredulously. He should have known they won't stop with this idiotic matchmaking.

"How can you be in the same place with this guy and resist the temptation to strangle him?" 

"Sheer willpower," Tanner shrugs apathetically.

He doesn't throw a tantrum because unlike some of his teammates he's still got dignity left.

 

 

  
The way in which they win their third game can only be described as ecstatic. Once they score their first goal, it's like a levee is broken, they just keep showering the net with pucks, and Tanner is as safe as houses. God is in the heaven, and all's right with the world.

They party at the hotel bar wildly, celebrating the beginning of the hot streak. 

Patrice boasts loudly, he'd be all over the HockeyHugsdotcom the next day, Tanner nonchalantly accepts congratulations on being MVP*, but the main course is served there the most of the team is yelling and cheering on somebody dancing on the table.

"Our Coach is a lightweight," laughs someone, and Bond turns in horror to face this ungodly scene. 

"I'll post it on YouTube," giggles some rookie, and Bond grabs his phone.

"No, you won't," he says firmly, erasing the freshly made video.

Q is as ripe as a forbidden fruit. He dances with eyes shut waving his hands above the head erraticly. Must be some imitation of reel. He lost his glasses. Hopefully it wasn't an attempt at an amateur striptease. As Bond tugs at his trousers, he stops abruptly and looks down. Bond shudders under his hungry and expecting gaze. 

"Drunkard," Bond scolds softly, helping him down, but Q only laughs carefreely and puts his warm hand around Bond's neck.

Bond escorts him to the bar to get him water, there the bartender flips through channels with disinterest.

"Leave it," Bond commands, as a familiar face shows on the TV screen.

_Silva._

His crooked grin seems to be directed right at Bond, as the announcer informs the viewers about another victim of his fist. 

The rage rushing through Bond's veins washes away all good spirits, all light-heartedness and relaxation of the last few hours. 

He should focus on the game and not waste his time on... anything _unrelated_. 

He should sober up.

"Wait, James." The name hits him hard, but so does the tone, a mixture of gentle and lewd. It shouldn't sound perfect, but it does and it's painful.

He hates this tangled web of emotions. He knows his priorities. What he doesn't know is how to voice it right.

"You should've left your glasses on," he utters as he deliberately takes Q' hands off of his shirt and lets them fall to his sides. "It's not like I'm going to kiss you."

The excruciating pain on the boy's face tells him he fucked up in the most cruel manner, and after a few seconds he escapes to the dark and cold hotel room.

He's afraid (and aches for it) that Q will follow him. He does not.

 

It takes him 634 sheeps to will himself into sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Most Valuable Player


	9. Chapter 9

Eight

 

In the morning the bed next to his is as untouched as it was yesterday.

His brain feels sluggish as if he hasn't slept a wink, stomachache twists his guts mercilessly; he comes down for breakfast with no appetite whatsoever. 

"You're on a diet?" Tanner sets his plate loaded with full English near Bond's espresso.

"Blame it on the booze," he aims at casual and misses by a mile.

"Why the foul mood? Q didn't put out?" Patrice cuts in, cheerful as a bloody lark. 

"Fuck off, Patrice." He is too exhausted to flip off the bastard.

 

They take the shuttle to the airport; Q is the last one to board and he looks... awful. As if he is just a full size paper doll who got caught in the rain, and now its colours are running, its figure's deformed. Bond can hardly contain sharp twinges of conscience at this harrowing sight. He shuts his eyes close, faking a nap.

 

He proceeds to avoid Q on the plane, telling himself repeatedly, he's doing everybody a favour.  
The sounds of Q vomiting fiercely in the loo accompany them during the whole flight.

 

Bond is pretty sure his team hates him.

 

At the practice Q acknowledges his presence with a short nod. He communicates with the team in curtly phrases, using only necessary words, as if he is a foreigner.

"What have you done to him?" Tanner corners him with concern which Bond prefers to ignore.

It's his modus operandi which he perfected with years, and it works mostly. Untill it doesn't.

"Kitten slaughterer," Patrice bumps into him from behind and skates away while Bond tries to regain balance.

For a moment he fights the urge to slash him with the stick on the head.

But he is an adult, a responsible player, he won't raise to the bait.

He trips Patrice with his stick cunningly and the bugger lands on his face, leaving a red trace on the ice as he slides forward.

The grim admiration with the deed of his hands spreads through Bond's chest. It's a dark and powerful feeling, he can't name or maybe he won't, because it's too damn close to schadenfreude.

The team doctor fusses already with Patrice' nose, the other guys are throwing wary glances at Bond, but not daring to confront him.

His captain approaches him, his palms stained. 

"I'm sick and tired of him," Bond gives him no chance to reprimand. "Put a leash on him or else."

Tanner's face darkens visibly. 

"He is your teammate, for God's sake," Tanner spits out, "get a hold of yourself!"

 

He leaves the practice right after, with nothing from Q, not even a reproachful look.

 

And if the teams hates him, he can assure them, the feeling is very much mutual.


	10. Chapter 10

Nine

 

He beats a man to a pulp.  
And it's even broadcasted on the National TV.

He has no recollection of how it started, if he was abused or was an abuser, no face or name of the player, just the number on his jersey (69). Even pain is subdued and unreal, this match, those people, this blood, a nightmare, he'll wake up any minute from.

"You are suspended," Q stares with a blank expression at his blooded knuckles.  
"And M wants you in her office tomorrow."  
He's gone, and that's when it starts to ache.

Bond resumes the staring contest with the China Buldog. As of now the bloody thing is winning, but hope springs eternal. Or so they say.  
He knows, no apology can fix it, so he stays stubbornly silent.  
"You have to do psychological evaluation. Anew." M announces icily.  
"Make me start visiting the bloody shrink, why don't you?"  
She doesn't deign his bitter remark with an answer.  
"I' m a goon, that's what I do. You should trust me to finish my job."  
"Is it why you came back? To take revenge?"  
"Good question." The one he has been repressing for far too long.  
"We're at a loss. And you know we need you."  
"But you still sacrificed me."  
"It was a possibility of losing you or the certainty of losing all those other players. I'd made the only decision I could, and you know it." She pauses for him to confirm, and when he doesn't she bursts out. "What do you expect, a bloody apology? You know the rules of the game, you've been playing it long enough. We both have."  
"Maybe too long," he concludes, 'cause he's tired of this pointless argument.  
"Speak for yourself."

 

Doctor Hall receives him favorably with a handshake in a dim-lit room with a mirror. Hopefully it's not a two-way one, but he won't bet on that.  
"I'd like to start with some simple word associations, just tell me the first word that pops into your head. For example, I might say day, and you might say..."  
"Wasted," he answers automatically.  
"Alright," Dr.Hall smiles as if Bond just met his expectations precisely. "Goon?"  
"Shot."  
"Heart?"  
"Target."  
"Bird?"  
"Sky." This is getting ridiculous.  
"M?"  
"Bitch." She'd better be on the other side of the glass.  
"Hockey?"  
"Employment." A lie, but if you say it fast enough, it can pass for truth.  
"Country?"  
"England." An easy one, must be near the end of the stupid questionnaire.  
"Q?"  
The air is burning in his lungs, and he can't breath out a word.  
"Q?"  
"Done."  
Bond gets up, flips off the mirror, hoping M is watching, and walks off.

Bond can almost visualize the report: 'Psychological evaluation; alcohol addiction indicated. Pathological rejection of authority based on unresolved childhood trauma. Subject is not approved for play on the field and immediate suspension from sports-related activity advised.'

He finally starts the car, and the first song he stumbles upon on the radio is "The End"*.  
Isn't it fucking ironic. 

 

As he returns home, the reason of his downfall waits for him at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is the end,  
> Beautiful friend  
> This is the end,  
> My only friend, the end  
> It hurts to set you free,  
> But you'll never follow me.  
> The end of laughter and soft lies,  
> The end of nights we tried to die,  
> This is the end.  
> "The End" by Doors


	11. Chapter 11

Ten

 

The early autumn evening is spiced with the smell of smoldering leaves; deep blue sky's falling on the street lamps like a tide on a string of pearls. 

It's not even that cold, but Q is hiding his hands in the pockets of his parka. As if all the chill from the time spent on ice is imprinted on his bones and now he can't get warm again.

Bond in his immaculate suit and with bandaged palms must seem surreal to him.

"I never properly thanked you," Q finally speaks up, and Bond just gapes at him in awe, 'cause what a way to break a pattern. 

"What for?"

"For taking care of me, then you really didn't have to," Q shrugs. "For bonding me with the team, listening to my whining, chasing away my fears, for - everything."

"I owe you an apology, so we're quits." He tries to adjust his expression to the usual poker face, imagining vividly how a better man than him would be already begging for forgiveness kneeling. 

Q' fingertips trace the slightly stained material of the bondage.

This is such an intimate gesture, and somehow it doesn't feel unnatural, but still it puts Bond in a trance. 

"You know a tale of a Snow Queen and a boy, whom she kidnapped and held in her Ice castle?" Q' voice is enigmatic and strangely sad. " She promised she'll give him the world and a pair of skates to boot if he can spell "eternity" with the pieces of ice."

Q' fingers are pressed now to the almost imperceptible scar at Bond's temple.

"You dont' have to be that boy. You don't have an eternity, but the world and the skates are already yours. Don't let anyone fool you."

 

When he leaves, Bond realizes his cheeks are wet.

 

He must've had the most strangest dream of a love confession in his whole life.


	12. Chapter 12

Eleven

 

You know how it goes sometimes: your closest circle accuses you of having a bad habit, which you (definitely totally) have _not_ , and to prove them wrong you somehow end up doing exactly the thing they were worried about.

In other words, Bond starts drinking.

 

It's not like he has to strain himself.

Alcohol has always been a tumbler to reduce the piercing perception, to negotiate with reality or turn it down completely; the soft brush to improve the picture.

Like sticking flowers into the barrel of the gun.

With so much time on his hands (no practice, no games), with his routine smashed up, what else he can do?

He understands in the back of his mind he is procrastinating; he should be with the team, should face all people he had hurt, but in a fuzzy warmth of Scotch all this seems irrelevant.

He doesn't pick up when his phone rings; his mobile is dead, he forgets to recharge it. He suspects the nosy callers can come and visit, so he decides to escape while he can.

He surfs the aisles of the supermarket like an alien would explore some lone and dull meteorite. He already filled his basket with gin and tonic, and other goods just seem so extra.

 

Then he stumbles upon a section with mugs.

He doesn't need mugs; he's out of coffee and tea.

The big black letter catches his eye.

He stares at it as if it'll talk back to him if he is persistent enough.

_A rose by any other name. *_

He buys the mug (a little ashamed of himself).

It watches him from the shelf in his apartment, while he is mixing a drink.

The letter curves in an unsatisfied frown at him.

 

  
He stops drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,  
> Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part  
> Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!  
> What's in a name? that which we call a rose  
> By any other name would smell as sweet.
> 
> William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet.


	13. Chapter 13

Twelve

The last person he expects to see on his threshold at 8 a.m. is Moneypenny.

"Cut-throat razor. How very traditional." She stares pointedly at the tool in his hand.

"Well, I like to do some things the old-fashioned way." He shifts uneasy under her searching gaze, not eager to let her in to observe the mess of clothes and empty bottles in his living room.

"Going somewhere?" 

"Actually, I am. Got a job to do."

The smile on her lips is as genuine as rare, and she relaxes visibly.

"Raising the tantalizing question of what you're doing here."

"My official directive was to help, in any way I can. But I guess, there is no need." She shoves past him into the apartment.

"C'mon get ready, I'll give you a lift. Oh, and you really can use some room service here."

As he steps out of the bedroom in his best grey suit, she whistles approvingly.

"Now, that's better. You look the part now."

"And what part is that?"

"Old dog, new tricks."

 

"Where the hell have you been?" M is furious, forehead's wrinkled, jaw's tight, - and suddenly Bond understands the meaning of the China Buldog. Must be her spiritual animal. He can't hold a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Enjoying death. Number 7 reporting for duty."

"Ran out of drink where you were, did they?" She snorts, as snark as usual. " You'll have to be declared fit for active play."

He doesn't argue for once.

 

"Why didn't you answer my calls?" Tanner sounds vexed and hesitates a little as he considers whether it would be better to shake the hand Bond is stretching out to him, or kick his arrogant ass.

"You didn't get the postcard?" Bond grabs his captain in a bear hug, because he missed the nagging bastard. "Where is Patrice? I gather, I owe him a punch in the face."

"You, daft bugger." Tanner laughs with relief. 

"Hey, look, who's joined the party," the man in question comes to greet him. "You sure do come from the school of tough love." He smirks and elbows Bond half-heartedly.

"Welcome back, Killer!" the guys shout joyfully.

 

His resurrection goes well untill there is only one person left he hasn't notified of it yet.

 

Q' shelter down the hall is more of a cupboard, then a proper office. The boy has spread his personality on it though; his favorite spy-movie posters cover the walls along with boards of all sorts. The enormous amount of Post-its strewn all over the place reminds Bond of a blown up paper mill.

He knocks at the opened door softly.

Q lifts his head, and Bond is momentarily overwhelmed with the paleness of his face, tired gaze, tight mouth. The boy grew up overnight. 

Bond approaches his table, his heart pulsing all over his body, and places the box upon the book Q is reading. Q watches him quietly, patiently, then starts to unwrap the present carefully.

"Not exactly Christmas, is it?" The silence is maddening, he aches for any kind of response now. "Just a mug. I suppose you like Scrabble."

"And here I was expecting an exploding pen." Q jokes and smiles beautifully, it reflects in every feature of his face. "Thank you."

The feeling in his chest is so intense, Bond can't control the nervous laughter. He has to do something about it, he just doesn't know what yet.

It's a full time job, making somebody happy.

**Author's Note:**

> * Five for Fighting - a five-minute penalty for fighting.
> 
> ** OT - overtime


End file.
